“Trying.” Calvin didn’t even try to mask his irritation. “He’s not nearly as easy to work with as you two.”
“Well, you’ve still got…two hours?” Emmy smiled. “Though less is more with Jace, Calvin. He’s more like my daddy when it comes to fashion. Don’t you think?” She turned to Krystal.
“I guess.” Krystal blinked, her gaze darting around the room as she murmured, “Oh…looking for Trav…” Her gaze bounced to his chest. “Sorry.” She grabbed Emmy’s arm and pulled.
“What? Are we leaving?” Emmy asked.
Krystal slammed the door shut and wh
atever was said next was muffled by the cinder block walls of the stadium.
“Shirt.” Calvin held out the shirt. “I would definitely say this is less than everything else I’ve suggested.”
Jace grabbed the shirt. “Dammit.” He pulled open the door and ran out.
Krystal was a few feet away, leaning against the wall, eyes pressed shut and hands fisted at her sides.
“You need to talk to him,” Emmy was saying.
If the “him” was him, Jace totally agreed. If she didn’t want to talk, maybe she’d listen. He had a lot to say. But the sound of his boots on the concrete hall had her eyes fly open and her feet moving—away from him.
“Wait,” he called out. “Please.”
Emmy Lou smiled. “Hey, Jace.”
Krystal hesitated, then spun on her heel, the tilt of her chin giving him all the warning he needed. “What?” Her gaze slid over his bare chest. Was she blushing? Krystal King? He rattled her and he liked it. He more than liked it. “We’re busy.”
“Krystal.” Emmy Lou sounded more like a disapproving mother than a twin sister.
He couldn’t help but grin. “I know it.”
Krystal shifted from foot to foot, drawing attention to her pink zebra-striped tennis shoes. “Jace—”
“I could use a little coaching.” He paused, including Emmy in the conversation. “Tonight, I’ll be up there alone, and I’ll admit, it’s got my guts all twisted up. It’s one thing singing with someone.” He shrugged. “But solo?” It wasn’t a lie. Eight to ten songs, time depending. Forty minutes of just him. Forty never-ending minutes of him singing on a stage—with no Krystal or the Kings there to make it effortless. He could make a damn fool of himself. “And there’s this.” He held out the shirt, pearl snaps and all.
Krystal looked at the shirt as if seeing it for the first time. “That’s not right—that’s not your…style. Your brand.”
He nodded.
“What was wrong with what you wore to the photo shoot?” Emmy asked, taking the shirt and giving it a once-over. “I mean, this isn’t bad but… Try it on.”
“It’s not good, either,” Krystal finished. “Do what you want. Wear what you want. Make sure it’s something you like because that’s what people will expect to see you in from now on.”
He nodded, shrugging into the shirt and snapping it up.
“Actually.” Emmy’s brows rose. “It looks good on.”
But he was watching Krystal, waiting for her response.
Her lips pressed tightly closed and her eyes narrowed. “Yeah. But…” She glanced at his face before she stepped forward and began rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “You want to show these off.” She nodded at his tattoos. “Your fans will want to see them.”
He stared down at her, the top of her golden head bent as she tugged his sleeves and made them even. His throat clogged with all the words he wanted to say. Words. And a melody. Soft and slow and sweet, playing through his head.
She looked up at him, eyes wide and breath unsteady.
“Good?” He could reach out and touch her. He sure as hell wanted to.
She nodded.